CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Less than an hour later I’m standing at Paloma’s front door, still in my sweat-stained running clothes, pleading my case to the housekeeper. “Please tell Señora that I think I finally figured out what happened to her daughter. Will you ask her to please, please see me?”
The housekeeper looks dubious. She waves Rachel in. “I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Please. I am begging.”
“I’ll beg, too,” Rachel assures me and sprints away to parts unknown.
The housekeeper closes the door in my face. I stay put. Five minutes later she reappears. I crane my neck to see if Paloma is behind her. No such luck. “She wants to know if you can prove it is Don Hector,” the housekeeper says.
If I respond truthfully, Paloma will send me away again. “I must look at Peppi’s things to find proof of what I think I’ve figured out. I’d like to examine her phone, her laptop, and the notebook she kept in her handbag. Even if Señora is not willing to see me, will she let me see those items? I know the police have returned them.”
She sighs. “Wait here.” Another five minutes pass. Then, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I could scream. Rachel reappears shaking her head. “No way, Mom. Doña Paloma is in a really bad state.” She lowers her voice. “You know it happened a week ago exactly.”
“Of course I know! And now I feel like I might finally have a handle on what happened! Please!”
But the housekeeper is immovable. “I’ll keep trying with Doña Paloma,” Rachel reassures me. “Are you really sure you’ve figured it out?”
“I’m pretty sure. For the first time I have a theory that totally adds up. I really think I could find proof if I could just examine Peppi’s things.”
“But the police examined her stuff and they still don’t know who killed her.”
“Because they didn’t know what to look for!”
Rachel nods. “I believe you, mom. Today’s Friday so you’ve got to do the personal interviews, right?”
“Then the preliminary swimsuit and evening gown competitions.” I don’t know how I’m going to focus on those when all I want to do is rummage through Peppi’s personal belongings.
“You won’t have any free time again until tonight. Late.” Rachel lurches forward and grabs me in a hug. “Don’t worry, Mom. Go do what you gotta do and I’ll keep trying with Doña Paloma.”
My daughter disappears. The housekeeper and I stare at each other. “Is it true, all those things you said?” she asks me.
“Absolutely true.”
“Then I’ll try with Señora, too,” she whispers, and gives me a thumb’s up.
Back in the Durango, I call Detective Dez. Since he doesn’t pick up I’m forced to leave a voicemail. “I believe I’ve figured out who killed Peppi Lopez and why. But I need proof and I bet it’s on her laptop. Or maybe in her notebook because I know she was in the habit of jotting down notes. Anyway, her mother won’t give me access. Will you get those items back? We can help each other, Detective. You get your hands on Peppi’s personal items and I’ll tell you what you need to know to solve this crime.”
Then I put in a call to Mario. “I think I figured out who killed Peppi,” I tell him, and explain. Then, “I could really use your help. If you could do two things for me—”
“Name them.”
Sometimes that’s all a beauty queen needs: a friend who works for the FBI.
I race back to the hotel. I have 67 four-minute interviews to conduct, as do Shanelle and Lasalo. I’ll do the math for you. It’ll take more than six hours.
I shower and change into what I think of as my Jackie O suit: it’s bright pink with three-quarter-length sleeves, a collar, and a slim knee-length skirt. I wore it for my preliminary interviews when I competed on Oahu for the Ms. America crown, then again at my press conference after I was awarded the title. Like me, the contestants should dress as if they were interviewing for a job, wearing nothing too flashy. No beads, no sequins, no eye-catching jewelry, no over-the-top makeup.
I end up spending most of the day in a small conference room in the hotel. Two notable things happen. Detective Dez does not call back. And Mariela is so personable and gracious in her interview that she lands in my top ten.
That’s a third of her preliminary score. Let’s see how she does in swimsuit and evening gown.
In the late afternoon Shanelle and I are in the auditorium watching Trixie lead the rehearsal for the opening number—much more effectively than the former choreographer did, by the way—and I’m attempting to revive myself with the second cappuccino of the day. I get a text from Jason. “Whoa,” I say a few seconds later.
Shanelle leans over to peer at my phone, too. “Whoa,” she repeats. “This may not be PC to point out but your husband is
hot
!”
We both stare at the photo Jason texted me. It’s a “test shot” taken by the calendar people. He’s standing in front of a race car wearing jeans and an unbuttoned shirt that reveals his new set of 6-pack abs. It’s sunny and he’s squinting. He’s not smiling at all, which creates even more of a bad-boy impression.
I stare at the photo. It’s my husband but sort of not my husband. “He says the cameraman joked that he wouldn’t only be in the calendar, he’d land on the cover.”
“I’m not sure the cameraman was joking,” Shanelle says.
I’m not, either. I don’t know how I feel about that but I need to keep an open mind. I’m putting away my phone when I spy Consuela barreling across the auditorium in my direction. I lean toward Shanelle. “What do you want to bet Hector told Consuela his ‘little secret’?”
“One guess how that conversation went,” she whispers back.
Consuela plops down next to me. She’s so upset she’s shaking. “Hector never would have gotten into that if it weren’t for you!”
“That’s preposterous! He told me he’s been doing it since he was thirteen.”
“I don’t believe it! He had the nerve to say I should try a bee-venom facial mask to combat my fine lines. If it’s good enough for that Camilla who’s married to Prince Charles, it’s good enough for you, he says. As if I have fine lines!” She slaps her thigh. “And as if I want to trade beauty secrets with my lover!”
I can’t help but giggle. She gives me the sort of look that could kill. A few days ago it might have frightened me but now I know Consuela is no killer.
“You laugh,” she spits. “But someday I will make you pay for convincing Hector to stay with that ridiculous wife of his.”
“So after all this you still want to marry him? I don’t know if that surprises me or not. But you can be sure of this, Consuela. I didn’t convince Hector of a darn thing. He never intended to divorce his wife. He loves her and she loves him, the
real
him. Which is more than he can say of you.”
She slaps her thigh a second time for good measure then flounces away.
Shanelle and I watch her go. “This is turning out to be a pretty good afternoon,” Shanelle observes.
Later that afternoon, since I’m tied down, Pop picks up Rachel from Paloma’s. My daughter reports she made progress with Doña Paloma, and that the housekeeper, whose name is Mercedes, helped. “I think Doña Paloma is going to come around, Mom. But if she doesn’t, tomorrow I could sneak into Ms. Lopez’s bedroom and—”
“No, Rach. No sneaking. We’ll find another way to get what we need. So the cops never came to the house to take back Peppi’s things?”
She shakes her head. “And I was there all day.”
So it appears Detective Dez did not take my voicemail seriously. I believe he will regret that. I pat my daughter’s leg. “Don’t worry about a thing, Rach. You go to dinner with Grandpa and have a good time.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Rachel and Pop elected not to watch the preliminary competitions. The audience is comprised primarily of the contestants’ parents. My own dinner is a turkey and avocado sandwich shoveled down between the swimsuit and evening gown events. Sure, a few girls ignore the ban on body glitter and several more kill their chances by sporting stilettos with heels higher than four inches, but matters proceed smoothly regardless.
At the conclusion of the festivities, I meet with Shanelle and Lasalo to compare our composite scores. Mariela easily makes it onto our list of 15 semifinalists, which will be announced at Saturday’s finale shortly after the opening number.
“What did I tell you, girl?” Shanelle murmurs as we collect our paperwork. “You know how to be fair.”
“Let’s see if I can repeat the performance tomorrow night at the finale.”
I’ve just walked into the hotel’s humdrum lobby when I check my cell phone and see that Mario left a voicemail.
“You were right!”
he says.
“On both counts.”
I stop listening and hold my cell to my chest. Since this lobby is so bare bones it doesn’t even have a chair I can drop into, I lean a hand against the wall for support.
I did it again. I solved another murder. I can’t believe it! And yet I can.
I push a few buttons and replay Mario’s voicemail, this time to the end. “
Good girl!”
he goes on.
“Excellent work. Call me for the details on what I found out. I don’t care how late it is.”
I play the message three more times. There’s no doubt about it. I hear admiration in his voice.
Since it’s been a while and I’m still leaning against the wall, the chubby girl at the reception desk glances my way. “You okay, ma’am?”
I assure her I am. In fact I’m so okay I don’t even mind her calling me “ma’am” instead of “miss.”
